Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad BoyHe's Just a Cowboy

  Heather touched their mother lightly on the shoulder. “You’re just feeling a little down, right now, Mom. Things’ll get better.”

  Ellen managed a smile, and Adam climbed onto the chair next to hers, happily walking his toy dinosaur around a bowl of cut flowers. “Well, at least we’ve got you, eh, baby?” Ellen said, brightening a bit as she ruffled Adam’s hair.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Am not a baby.”

  “Oh, right.” Ellen laughed, and cocked her head in the boy’s direction as she looked at Rachelle. “Well, maybe if you and Jackson can give me a couple more grandkids, I’ll come around.”

  Heather bit her lower lip and looked as if she were about to cry. She turned to the window quickly. “Sure. Rachelle and Jackson can have a dozen children,” she said with forced cheeriness.

  Rachelle stared at her sister and was about to say something when the phone rang and Heather reached for the receiver.

  She left a few minutes later. Climbing into her car and smiled inwardly, Rachelle let her thoughts wander.

  * * *

  WITHOUT REALLY THINKING, Rachelle turned north on the main road and headed toward Whitefire Lake, toward the Fitzpatrick summer estate. The last time she’d been there, with Jackson, she was walking an emotional tightrope, but today her mind was clear. Maybe she could sort out the truth by facing the past.

  Knowing she couldn’t be defeated, she smiled as she passed the sawmill. The day shift was just getting off and she spied Erik Patton as he headed for his pickup. Erik Patton and Scott McDonald, Melanie Patton and Laura Chandler Fitzpatrick, Thomas and June Fitzpatrick, Amanda Gray and Brian Fitzpatrick; names and faces swam before her eyes. Someone, probably one of those closest to Roy, knew what had happened to him. And Rachelle was determined to find out the truth.

  * * *

  TIMMS LIT A CIGARETTE AND slid a slim manila folder across the small table in Jackson’s hotel room.

  “Does this tell me who killed Roy?” he asked.

  Timms drew hard on his cigarette. “I don’t think so.”

  Jackson was irritated. “Then why’re you here?”

  “Just read the material, man.”

  Grumbling, Jackson opened the file folder and saw his mother’s name on the first page. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, but the detective slid his gaze to the window.

  “I didn’t ask you to check into my mom.”

  “Read it.”

  The dead tone in the little man’s voice convinced him that he had no choice, but as he read, Jackson felt as if red-hot coals had set fire to his gut; a burning sensation started in the pit of his stomach and seared his nerves. “No,” he mouthed, reading still further, learning the secrets of his birth and his mother’s betrayal. Before he was through, he crumpled the report in one huge fist and banged his hand on the table. “Where did you get this garbage?” he ground out, dropping the report and grabbing the investigator by his collar.

  “It’s the truth, I swear.”

  “Like hell. This is more of Fitzpatrick’s filthy lies. That’s all.” Jackson’s eyes burned with a cold fire. “Now, either you’ve been paid off, are lying or are the most pathetic excuse for a detective that I’ve ever seen!”

  Timms’s eyes bulged, but he didn’t back down. “Thomas Fitzpatrick’s your old man.”

  “Like hell!” Jackson gave the man a shake.

  “Why would I lie?” Timms looked desperate.

  “For money!”

  “Why would Fitzpatrick pay me?”

  “To get you off his case—”

  “No way!” He reached to the table and fumbled for the file folder, turning it open to the last page. “It’s all here, Moore. See for yourself.”

  Jackson, still holding Timms by the shirtfront, slid a glance at the open folder. A notarized copy of his birth certificate was there and the name under the slot for Father was listed as: Thomas Fitzpatrick.

  “It’s a fake! I’ve seen my records! When I was in the navy…” he argued, though he felt his confidence begin to waver while his stomach roiled.

  “This one is before the other was changed,” Timms said, his voice tight.

  Jackson slowly let the other man go. His gaze was fixed to the old copy and the letters spelling out Thomas Fitzpatrick as his father. A thousand emotions screamed through him—hate, betrayal, disbelief…denial. No way would his mother have slept with Fitzpatrick! No damned way! He rubbed his forehead and felt the beads of sweat that had collected on his brow. Matt Belmont was his father! Matt Belmont! He’d died before he could marry Sandra! The checks from the navy…

  His gaze dropped to the file again and Timms flipped the page. Another copy. This time of a check made payable to Sandra Moore for five thousand dollars. The signature on the check was flamboyant and belonged to Thomas Fitzpatrick.

  “Your mom got one of these every six months,” Timms explained. “There are more copies—”

  Jackson shoved the file off the desk. This couldn’t be happening! There had to be some mistake! No way could that monster, that vile, hypocritical excuse of a man, be his father! It just couldn’t be! “You made a mistake!”

  “No way.”

  “I won’t believe it!”

  “Then don’t. You don’t have to believe me, but you can ask your mother. You know, she and Fitzpatrick went way back!”

  Flashes of memory, like bolts of lightning, seared through his brain. Sandra Moore had gone to school with Thomas Fitzpatrick, she had been able to get a job at the logging company whenever she needed one and he had been at her side when Jackson had been involved in the accident while setting chokers for Fitzpatrick Logging. Was it possible? His head throbbed. Still he wouldn’t believe the damning evidence.

  “Why do you think Roy hated you so much?” Timms asked, and the bottom of Jackson’s world fell away as the truth hit him with the force of an avalanche. “He knew. He found out when he was in his early teens and from that point on, he took it out on you.”

  “Oh, God,” Jackson whispered, hating the truth, hating the fact that he was spawned by a man he detested, hating the world.

  “Look, Fitzpatrick probably would’ve paid me big bucks to keep my mouth shut, but you’ve been straight with me and I figured you deserved the truth.” The private investigator reached for his jacket. “There are a lot of secrets in this town, Moore. I don’t know if you want to find out anything else.”

  Jackson sat on the edge of the bed, his fists curled at his sides. “Who killed Roy?”

  “I don’t know,” Timms admitted, “but if I were you, I’d start with the man with all the answers.”

  “Fitzpatrick.”

  “Bingo.”

  * * *

  THE GATES TO THE FITZPATRICK summer house were locked and Rachelle wasn’t about to try to break them down or climb the wall surrounding the estate. Instead, she drove around the lake to the north shore marina and rented a boat. Clouds had gathered, blocking out the sun, and the wind had picked up, but she slid into the small craft, sat at the stern, her hand on the throttle. The little boat chugged across the choppy water and the Fitzpatrick home came into view, imposing and grand, though in need of some repair.

  Rachelle’s heart began to knock as she pulled alongside the dock and threw the anchoring line over a post. She walked up the slippery pier and found the path leading to the gazebo. Her heart nearly stopped. This was where it all began, she realized, her throat suddenly like sandpaper. Here was where Roy used Laura, then attacked Rachelle.

  She closed her eyes and imagined the laughter and music filtering from the house, smelled the fear that had held her captive.

  She walked up the two short steps to the gazebo and gazed at the bench where Roy had attacked her. If it hadn’t been for Jackson coming to her rescue, what would have happened?

  It took all her fortitude to sit on that bench, all her courage not to run back to the boat and leave this miserable place with its monstrous memories behind. But she, too, had to confront the past,
just as did Jackson, in order that they could start over and find a future untarnished.

  The wood felt rough beneath her fingers and the pine trees seemed dark and foreboding. What happened that night? What happened? Why had someone killed Roy? Was it because of her?

  She didn’t think so.

  Erik Patton held a grudge against his friend, and he’d been adamant about Rachelle leaving the past alone. But would he have killed Roy? Because of his sister?

  And Melanie—could she harbor a grudge against the Fitzpatricks and then work for Thomas?

  And what about Thomas and the whole Fitzpatrick clan? Surely they wouldn’t kill their firstborn son—the boy who was groomed to inherit everything, their favorite… .

  The thought hit her like a lightning bolt. Roy had been the golden boy—the crown prince. Brian and his sister, Toni, had been their other “children,” neither one better than the other, neither one coming close to Roy, neither one quite good enough in their father’s eyes.

  Rachelle swallowed hard. The answer was Brian. He inherited everything when Roy died—including Laura. He became his father’s favorite. And it was rumored that he was running the logging company into the ground.

  Rachelle with her reporter’s instincts guessed that if Brian hadn’t killed his brother, he had a good idea who had, at least better than anyone else.

  So it was time to pay him a visit. She thought about being frightened, but wasn’t. She’d known Brian for most of her life and believed, that confronted with the truth, he’d either lie or break down. He wouldn’t resort to violence.

  * * *

  JACKSON’S FIST THUNDERED against the door of the Fitzpatrick house. “Fitzpatrick!” he yelled, pounding all the harder. His hand ached, probably bruised, but he didn’t care. The pain in his hand didn’t compare with the agony cutting his soul. “Fitzpatrick!”

  The door opened suddenly and Thomas’s wife stood on the other side of the threshold. “What do you want?” she asked, her skin nearly translucent.

  “To see the old man.”

  “He’s not here.”

  Jackson didn’t have time for games. “I checked at the office. Melanie Patton said he was at home. Now someone’s lying. I’m guessing it’s you.”

  June’s lips compressed into a line of pure hatred. “Leave us alone! Haven’t you caused this family enough grief?”

  “Not by a long shot.”

  “My son’s dead—”

  “And I didn’t do it,” Jackson said beneath his breath, “but you know that, don’t you?” He saw a flicker of fear in her cold blue eyes. “You just wanted to use me as a scapegoat, to make sure that I was out of your life.”

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, her hand flying to her throat.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. I know about your husband and my mother and if it makes you feel any better, I don’t like it any more than you do. But I think it’s time he and I had a chat.”

  “He’s not here,” she said staunchly, and to her horror, Jackson brushed his way past her and walked through the house. “You have no right!” she screamed after him. “No right!” A maid, standing in the hallway, took one look at the situation and mumbled something in Spanish. “I’ll call the police!” June said, reaching for the phone.

  “Go right ahead.”

  “I’m not joking—”

  “Neither am I.” He spun and, towering over her, felt a wash of pity for the woman who had vowed to stick by Thomas Fitzpatrick in good times and in bad. “Call the police. Tell them I’m trespassing. And I’ll tell them I’m Tommy’s long-lost bastard.”

  Tears welled in her eyes and he felt a jab of empathy for the woman who had wanted more than anything in the world for him to be convicted of a murder he hadn’t committed. It would have made things so much tidier. “Go to hell,” she whispered, visibly shaking.

  “Don’t worry, lady, I’m there.” He stormed through the rooms, found no one but a couple of servants and, convinced the old man had taken off, turned on June. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know,” she repeated, and a triumphant gleam lighted her cold eyes.

  “Then I’ll find him myself.” Jackson strode out of the house and climbed on his bike just as the first few drops of rain splattered from the sky. He barely noticed the drizzle sliding down his collar or the rain-washed streets. All he cared about was confronting his father—his lying scum of a father—with the truth!

  * * *

  “RACHELLE!” LAURA STOOD ON the other side of the door and for a second she resembled the girl who had once been Rachelle’s friend. How had they grown so far apart? “I don’t think you should be here.”

  “I want to speak with Brian.”

  Laura was instantly wary. “Why?”

  “Because I think he knows who killed his brother.”

  Laura tried to speak, failed and finally, though her eyes bore a desperate sadness, let the door open. “Brian doesn’t know anything,” she said, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  “Do you?”

  “Only that Jackson’s the culprit.”

  “We both know that’s a lie.”

  Laura led the way into the house, through the marble-floored foyer to the living room, a stark room that reminded Rachelle of an arctic winter. Only a few splashes of color—bloodred and ebony—gave any depth to the interior. Laura opened a cabinet and found a glass. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Lifting the lid of an ice bucket, Laura found the tongs and carefully dropped a couple of cubes into two glasses. Ignoring Rachelle’s request, she poured them each a healthy portion of Scotch. With an inward shudder, she handed one glass to Rachelle and sipped from the second. “Brian doesn’t know anything about Roy’s death.”

  “You’re sure?” Rachelle guessed Laura was lying.

  “Absolutely. He’s convinced that Jackson is guilty. Everyone in the family thinks so.”

  “They’re wrong.”

  “Oh, Rachelle, why don’t you give up on this? Jackson got off, didn’t he? So what does it matter?”

  “It matters a lot.”

  The back door opened, and Laura jumped. Her drink sloshed onto her slacks and dripped onto the couch. “Damn.”

  “Laura?” Brian’s voice fairly boomed through the house. “You home?”

  “In the living room,” Laura called back, her fingers fluttering nervously to her throat. “Rachelle Tremont’s here—”

  “Damn!” Brian burst into the room, his tie loosened, his expression hard. “I thought we were through with you.”

  Rachelle decided to get right to the point. “I think you killed your brother.”

  “I—I—what?” he stammered, stopping at the landing two steps above the sunken living room. His father joined him there and Rachelle’s heart dropped.

  “You think what, Miss Tremont?” Thomas demanded, his eyes slitted.

  This was no time to back down. “I think Brian killed Roy—”

  Laura’s hand was on Rachelle’s sleeve. “You’re wrong.”

  “I think he killed him, took his place, inherited his position and his girlfriend and began running the company right into the ground.”

  “That’s crazy!” Brian protested.

  Thomas didn’t say a word.

  “Dad…Dad, you don’t believe that I—” Brian swiped at the sweat on his forehead. “Good God, you think I would kill my own brother?” His voice came out in a squeak. He looked at Laura and worked his way to the bar where he poured himself a drink.

  “Of course he doesn’t,” Laura said, but her confident smile faltered and her skin had turned white as milk. “This is all so ridiculous. Rachelle, I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but you’d better leave before I call the police—”

  A pounding on the front door echoed through the house. “Now what?” Laura asked, but seemed relieved to leave the room. A few seconds later, Jackson,
his hair wild, his eyes gleaming with a furious flame, strode into the room.

  “You miserable, lying son of a bitch,” he growled at the sight of Thomas Fitzpatrick. Lunging at the man, he grabbed the lapels of Fitzpatrick’s jacket and nearly ripped the cloth as his fingers clenched in the soft weave.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Brian asked.

  “Stay out of this, brother,” Jackson said with a sneer, and Thomas turned a shade of gray that looked positively unhealthy.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “Save it, Fitzpatrick. Save it for your yes men and your gofers and your legitimate children.”

  “Brother?” Brian repeated, and the back of his neck burned red.

  “Oh, no,” Rachelle whispered, and everyone in the room went quiet. The air was charged as Jackson glared at the man who had sired him. Standing there, eye-to-eye, Rachelle saw the resemblance and felt the hatred flowing between the two men. Her heart wept for Jackson. If this were true. If Thomas Fitzpatrick were his father…

  “I don’t understand,” Laura whispered, but Brian swore loudly and drained his drink.

  “You tried to pin Roy’s murder on me so that you could get rid of me once and for all.” Jackson released Thomas with a shove and looked disdainfully down at the man who hadn’t claimed him. “You’re the poorest excuse for a father I’ve ever seen.”

  “Now wait a minute—” Brian cut in.

  “Shut up!” Jackson turned on him. “And you—you’re no better. My guess is you know who killed Roy or you did it yourself. No one else gained from his death. Only you.”

  Brian visibly shook. He cast his wife a pleading look. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Then who did?”

  “No—” Laura cried as Brian pointed a finger in her direction. “Please, no—”

  “You?” Thomas roared, pain ripping through him. “You killed my boy?”

  “It was an accident,” Laura said, tears streaming from her eyes. She backed up until her buttocks met the glass of the French door.

  “An accident?” Thomas repeated, his voice cracking, his eyes moving from Laura to Brian. “And you knew?”

  “No, Dad, I swear—”

  “Liar!” Laura cried, tears streaming down his face. “Roy…he…oh, God, he and I made love…and then, and then, he…he told me to get Rachelle. That he needed a real woman… .”